


Precipice

by eiraparr8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eiraparr8/pseuds/eiraparr8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not long afterwards that there’s a knock on her door. “Come in,” she says quietly, not bothering to ask who it is. She’s been waiting for him.  </p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipice

**Author's Note:**

> The quote “You have no armor, nothing to protect you — except your wits, your courage, and your beauty" is from The Americans (season 2 episode 7).  
> Usual disclaimers apply.

 

Her face is still wet with tears as she leaves the room, feeling  Petyr's eyes on her still. The tears draw a few curious looks from the servants she passes, but none are bold enough to stop her or do anything more than look; besides, she is calm now, her face fixed into a careful mask and it’s only natural, really, that after witnessing the suicide of the Lady of the Eyrie Alayne would be upset.

It’s only when she’s alone in her room that Sansa allows the guise to briefly drop. She leans against the door, her smile small and quick, her shoulders sagging with relief. It worked, she thought, nervous laughter almost escaping. A larger smile threatens to escape, but instead she straightens and crosses to her bed, once again picking up her needlework. The cool silk soothes her and she feels her body begin to settle.

It’s not long afterwards that there’s a knock on her door. “Come in,” she says quietly, not bothering to ask who it is. She knows who’s there. She’s been waiting for him.  

Petyr is quiet as he walks towards her; he doesn’t come too close and waits at a respectable, courteous distance. Sansa keeps her eyes fixed on her needlework, appearing to focus solely on every perfect, even stitch as she listens to him. When she responds, her voice is calm, steady. She sounds perfectly at ease, a little distant perhaps, and she’s proud of this, that she can still slip into the guise of an ordinary and dutiful girl, the girl she used to be.

Finally, she looks up at him, answering his question without a word. They don’t need to use words to communicate now, a simple look is conversation enough. Petyr watches her with a strange brightness in his eyes, a similar knowingness to the one he wore earlier in the meeting. _He’s proud_ , she thinks, _he’s proud of me_ and for some reason that thought makes her almost smile. Just a quick, quiet tug of her lips, but it’s more of a real smile than the ones she used at King’s Landing, the practiced ones she used as a shield.

“And what do you want, Sansa?” he asks. After so many days of lies and half-truths, her name sounds strange on his lips.

_I want Winterfell_ , she thinks before she can stop herself. _I want my home. Not how it is now, empty and burned and a shadow of what it was, but how it used to be. The way it could be again, perhaps._ She knows that’s impossible, that her family’s gone and she can’t think like this, but it’s too late. From the way he looks at her she’s certain that all her emotions are laid bare on her face, that the mask she was able to wear for so long has cracked.

Carefully setting her work aside, Sansa rises and goes to him, standing closer than she might have otherwise dared, almost challenging him. Except she doesn’t know why she left her bed, why she’s standing so close to him. She stares at him and thinks that the air seems heavy; she can’t breathe properly and thinks of snow castles and icy air filled with heat. Petyr reaches out, his fingers taking some of her hair and resting it across her cheek, as if he’s admiring the auburn against her pale skin.

“Look at you,” he says, and his voice has changed. It’s still quiet and almost harsh, but there’s a speed to it now that she hasn’t heard before, almost as if he’s trying to stop himself from speaking and yet the words come out anyways, too quickly for him to take back. “You have no armor, nothing to protect you -- except your wits, your courage, and your beauty.”

 She takes in his words, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. His voice is rougher than usual, filled with admiration, and she straightens a little even as she drops her eyes, the perfect picture of a blushing maiden.

Later, she won’t be able to remember which one of them leaned in first, whether Petyr began the kiss or she did. It’s rougher than the one in the courtyard, his lips greedy and almost harsh, and she follows, clumsily mimicking his lead as she tries to mirror his movements. They’re both left breathless, his hands on her face as she clutches his doublet, both looking slightly dazed. He stares at her and she thinks that he’s waiting for her, giving her a choice. He didn’t plan this, she thinks, and then wonders if he’s only playing a game, making her think that she has control when really she is only following him and the game he plays so well.

She leans in again, her lips hesitant as they meet his, the kiss both slow and fast, gentle and harsh and insistent. She presses her body against his, not allowing herself to think, only noticing things-- his breath is hot and tastes of mint. His hands slide down her body, resting at her waist even as she grasps his shoulders, not knowing what else to do. One of them--both of them--move backwards slowly even as their lips still meet in hungry, greedy kisses. When her legs hit the edge of the bed, Sansa’s eyes are startled open and her lips become still. Her face feels warm and Petyr’s face is flushed too, something that surprises her-- he’s usually so good at hiding but maybe she’s simply learning to read him.

_It would be so easy_ , she thinks. Easy to lean in again and kiss him, easy to lose control completely. The thought frightens her-- perhaps it should frighten her more than it does-- and she pulls away ever so slightly, noting as she does the brief flash of something she doesn’t quite understand in Petyr’s eyes.

By some silent agreement, they draw away from each other. Petyr has to straighten his collar, something that strangely pleases her.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” he says, as if nothing had happened. “It’s time for the little lord to see his kingdom.”

“Is that wise, Lord Baelish?” she asks politely. Robin is nothing more than a frightened little boy.

His voice is reassuring, almost soothing, as he says, “Time for the falcon to leave the nest, I think. And of course, we’ll be there to help him.” 

She’s not quite sure how she’s meant to help Robin, but she nods and says the right words. “Of course, Lord Baelish.”

His lips curl into a sharp smile at her tone (distant and polite and obedient) and he takes her hand and kisses it. Her breath catches as he lingers a touch too long, and when he straightens the smile on his face has become a sly and sharp as if he’s won something. He leaves suddenly and she’s left alone in her little room that’s cold and drafty and not very comfortable. She focuses again on her needlework, studying every stitch, fingers working quickly and steadily.   _Nothing but your wits, your courage, and your beauty._

Those aren’t all she has, not anymore, and they both know it.


End file.
